decided to buy a variety of herbs himself.
"We have a cook who's very much into this sort
of thing herself," he explained. He flashed a smile at
me. Mama returned to the house to bring out some
other items, happy at how well the day's sales were
going.
Pierre sat in the rickety old cypress chair Daddy
had made years ago and, at my request, described his
mansion in New Orleans in greater detail. I sat on the
grass at his feet. Nearby, curious gray squirrels
squinted and waited to see what we were about and if
there would be any crumbs.
"You have beautiful wildflowers here, but on
our estate, our garden walls enclose huge banana trees
and drip with purple bugle vine. In the morning I
wake to the scent of blooming camellias and
magnolia, and the streets of the district are under a
canopy of oak."
"It does sound like you live in a beautiful place,
too."
"It's beautiful and quiet, but minutes away by
streetcar is the bustling city," he said with visible
excitement in his eyes. I listened, enchanted as he described the art galleries, the museums, the grand restaurants, and the famous French Quarter where the jazz musicians played and people sat in coffee stalls
drinking cafe au lait.
"The French Quarter is really more Spanish
than French, you know. All of the buildings that date
from colonial times are Spanish in design and
architecture. And the so-called French market is
Spanish from foundation to chimney pots."
He knew a great deal about the history of New